Don't Stand So Close (10 page)

‘It’s none of your business where his stuff is,’ Stella said. She grabbed the picture frame and placed it safely back down. She couldn’t tolerate the girl and her games and her lies for much longer.

‘I know nothing about you,’ Stella said. ‘I don’t even believe you’ve told me your real name.’

‘
Why won’t you say when he’s coming home?
’ Blue’s voice was rising, now she was a whining, petulant child. ‘Does he even live here?’

‘Of course he lives here, he’s my husband.’

Stella had made a mistake, opening the front door. She blamed the benzodiazepines; the drugs had been in her system so long they had saturated her bloodstream, dampened her functioning, made her lower her guard. She stood squarely in front of Blue, right in between the girl and her wedding photograph. ‘Look at me,’ she said.

Blue looked out from under her fringe, sullenly.

‘You don’t really believe that my husband is your father, do you?’

Blue put the tip of her thumb in her mouth and bit down. She seemed to be growing younger by the second. ‘Maybe. I don’t know,’ she said.

Stella took hold of her wrist, wrenching her thumb out of her mouth. ‘You had better answer me. Who are you? What’s your real name?’

‘I told you – my name is Blue.’ The girl was frightened now, and Stella was glad. She tightened her grip around her small wrist.

‘And your surname?’

‘Cunningham. Blue Cunningham. I promise you.’

She tried to pull away, but Stella held on, pushing her fingers into the soft flesh of the girl’s arm. She knew she was hurting her.

‘You’ve lied to me. About everything.’ Stella grabbed her chin, forcing Blue to look into her eyes. This girl is terrible trouble, Stella thought. And she wants to drag me down with her.

‘You’re scaring me,’ Blue said.

‘Good. Who brought you here? Is your boyfriend waiting outside? Is he waiting for you to let him in? Are you going to rob me?’

‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’ Tears oozed from her eyes
and made their way down her cheeks. Stella felt very little sympathy.

‘Why are you here?’ Stella was growling at her. The girl had manipulated her, lied, taken advantage. She felt a fool. ‘I’m calling the police right now,’ she said. She didn’t know what else to do, what else to threaten her with. She had no way of knowing anything.

‘Please don’t,’ Blue said.

‘Why are you so frightened of the police, Blue?’

‘I’m not.’

‘Have you done something bad?’

‘No, nothing like that. I promise.’ She wiped at her wet cheeks with the back of her hand, sniffing.

She was small and delicate. Weak. And Stella was glad. For once, she felt strong. She felt she could hurt her. If she had to, she would strike first, before the girl could do any damage.

‘WHY ARE YOU HERE? ANSWER ME!’ It felt good, to scream at her; to frighten her.

What could the girl want from her? Stella felt dizzy, the floorboards under her feet threatened to give way, she almost lost her balance.

Blue’s eyes were luminous against her pale skin. The tears kept coming, rolling down her cheeks and wetting her face, her nose was streaming.

Stella caught a hold of herself and let go. She had left a red mark in the shape of her fingertips around the girl’s tiny wrist. Blue made a big show of rubbing her arm and of feeling sorry for herself.

When she looked at Blue’s small, lovely face, she didn’t believe that she could have come to do harm. Blue was afraid.

And then the moment of rational thought, of empathy,
passed and Stella wanted to shake the girl in front of her. Hard.

Blue was sobbing, she could not speak. She covered her face with her hands.

‘I think you’d better sit down,’ Stella said. She guided Blue towards the bed.

Blue sat. Then she pulled back the covers, wriggled her legs underneath. She propped herself up against Stella’s pillows. As creepy as it was to see her there, at least she had calmed down. And she looked harmless; more than ever like a young child.

‘Our house is small,’ Blue said. ‘Nothing like yours. It’s so ugly, the carpets are brown, the walls – the paint has disgusting marks all over it. It’s not even ours, it’s a council house. I mean – it’s not so terrible really – when it’s cleaned up. And I have to look after my mum, sometimes. She drinks. She can get through a whole bottle of vodka in one night.

‘She gets migraines. Sometimes, in the mornings, she can’t get out of bed. She’s really pretty though – when she’s feeling better she gets dressed up and I help her, I blow-dry her hair, I help her colour it. We share clothes sometimes.’

Blue began to bite her nails. Flakes of red polish dropped on to the bedcovers.

‘There’s this man – I don’t even know why she likes him. He says things to her – horrible stuff. He tells her she’s fat and she’s old. I heard him tell her he wouldn’t fuck her if she begged him.’

The words were all the more monstrous, coming from Blue’s lovely mouth.

‘But then he does,’ Blue said. ‘And I can hear it. He hurts her. Sometimes it’s bad and we have to go to the emergency room. Mostly it’s just bruises.’

Stella came closer, looked down at her small head with her golden hair. ‘Blue – does this man ever hurt you?’

Blue shook her head. ‘Can I watch TV?’ she asked.

Stella managed a smile. She almost felt fond of her. Protective, even. Blue. Curled up in her bed.

She turned up for her next session right on time, just like nothing extraordinary had ever happened between them.

The secretary smiled in the same fake way she always did and gave her a look that was like:
You’re a nutcase and don’t we all know it, poor thing.
You could tell she was the kind of person who hated all the people who came up to her desk and hated answering the phones. But when
he
came out, her smile changed. For him, her smile was real. Ha ha. She should only know.

‘You can go through now,’ the secretary said, still with the fake smile. She pointed to his office as though she was stupid or something and after all her appointments wouldn’t even remember which way to go.

She knocked on the door and waited.

She had a fantasy of how it would be now that they were lovers. As soon as the door closed, he would reach out for her, pull her on to his lap, kiss her, stroke her hair.

He opened the door with his usual straight, nothing face. He pointed at the usual chair. She walked past him and waited while he turned his back to her and closed the door. Time had slowed down. He sat down the way he always did,
crossing his legs, his notepad on his lap. He did not reach out to her. It was as though nothing had happened, as if the time before – between them – had been erased.

Her face flushed, it blazed.

He was silent, waiting for her to begin. She scratched at the flowers on the arms of the wingback chair with her fingernails. She crossed her legs, her right leg kicking back and forth.

‘How have you been this week?’ he asked.

He was acting as though nothing had ever happened. She didn’t understand.

‘I’m not sorry about what we did,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean it. I’m not sorry. I’ve been happy this week. Happier than I’ve ever been. I’ve been eating properly, taking care of myself.’

‘I’m glad you’re feeling better,’ he said.

‘Stop it.’ She kicked her leg, back and forth, frustration building inside.

Silence. Then he said: ‘I can’t read your mind. Tell me what’s going on inside.’

She coughed and cleared her throat. ‘I want you to touch me again, like last time. Don’t pretend. I know you want to.’

She saw him take a deep breath. ‘You need to try to draw a line between fantasy and reality,’ he said. ‘Between what really happened and what you wish would happen.’

‘I know what happened.’ She wanted to cry but she didn’t want him to see. He was making her so angry. ‘I can describe it to you in detail, if you like.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ he said.

‘Because you remember.’ She leaned forward, so he had a good view down the front of her shirt. She ran both hands
through her hair, pulling it back from her face, then scooping it all forward over her right shoulder. She twirled the ends with her fingers.

She couldn’t stand it, to be still, to be apart from him and also so close. She jumped up, ran over to him and put her head in his lap. She held him tight, her arms around his waist.

It wasn’t the way she imagined it would be, when she got what she wanted. Being with him. She glanced up: his head was back, his eyes closed, his hand pushed down on her head. It smelt the same way it always smelled. He was far away from her. When he finished, she wanted to gag. She pushed her hand against her mouth.

She lay with her head in his lap and hoped he would say something. Something kind, something loving. He put his hands on her shoulders, pushing her away. She sat cross-legged on the floor and fastened her top. The thong was chafing, she stood up and pulled at it.

‘This is the last time,’ he said.

She bent down, brushed the top of his head with her lips. She wanted him to kiss her back, on her lips, she wanted to feel his beard against her face. He pushed her away. ‘Don’t,’ he said.

She checked the clock. ‘I still have ten minutes left until the end of the session.’

She walked back to her chair and sat down, still so angry. She wanted to make him happy, but he looked miserable. She wasn’t leaving until her time was over.

He zipped himself up.

This wasn’t what she wanted. She was frightened he didn’t care about her at all. He would pretend there was nothing between them.

‘Do you love me?’ she asked him. ‘Answer me. You have to give me an answer.’

‘Of course I care about you,’ he said.

‘I want to be with you,’ she said. ‘I love you. You’re the only person that can help me. The only one.’

She wouldn’t let him do this to her again. He wouldn’t be able to pretend that he hadn’t touched her, hadn’t been excited by her, hadn’t loved her.

Stella placed the first card down on the desk, a black and white inkblot.

‘Have you ever taken this sort of test before?’ she asked.

Simpson shook his head and stared sullenly at the card in front of him.

‘This test is a bit different,’ she said. ‘Could you tell me – what might this be?’

She picked up the card and offered it to him. She gave him a small smile of encouragement, but he did not see it, because he refused to look at her.

‘Absolutely not,’ he said.

‘Can I ask what the problem is?’ Stella said.

‘I’m not engaging in this nonsense.’

‘I can’t force you to take the test if you don’t want to,’ she said. ‘But it’s a standard personality test. We use it all the time here.’

With the palpable, precipitous rise in his anxiety, his oppositional side had come right to the fore. He pushed himself as far away from her as he could, his body jammed against the stiff back of the chair, his legs tightly crossed. ‘I’m
not going to complete some ridiculous activity that looks like something a child would enjoy.’

Stella realized that the Rorschach had brought out the most defensive, mistrustful side of her patient. He had no way of knowing what his responses might reveal about him, and she guessed that this lack of control terrified him. Perhaps the test had not been a good choice after all.
It’s all grist for the mill. Every response, each behaviour, gives you information
, she heard Max say.

‘I know a bit about your field,’ he said. ‘I majored in psychology in my undergraduate degree. I’ve spoken to someone who advised me not to take this test.’

Stella would not have been surprised if Simpson had done some research into which tests were routinely administered in custody evaluations – he was that type, intelligent and somewhat obsessive. And the inkblots had got a lot of ill-informed bad press.

She would not argue with him. She was not going to enter into an intellectual debate or a power play.

‘I’m not prepared to take this test without a lot more information,’ he said.

She placed her clipboard down on the desk. She knew full well she could quote the entire test manual to him – statistics, norms, the lot, not to mention the extensive research backing up the test – it would make no difference whatsoever. He was trying to manipulate her. He was desperate to even the playing field, but the reality was that he was the patient, mandated to be there, and she was the professional, the expert witness. The power lay with her, whether he liked it or not.

‘It’s your choice,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to argue with you – or try to force you. But you understand that the judge
has asked me to carry out a full assessment. Have you thought about how it will look if you don’t cooperate? What do you think the judge will think of your refusing to take the test? Or refusing to complete this assessment?’

It sometimes helped to make reference to the judge, to impress upon parents the importance of cooperating in the assessment process. Sometimes, Stella supposed because she was young, petite and female, clients underestimated the influence of the psychological report. Particularly clients like Lawrence Simpson. But she saw straight away that her question was a mistake. Simpson’s eyes turned cold and the muscles in his jaw rippled as he clenched his back teeth.

‘Please, don’t talk to me like a child,’ he said. He paused deliberately between each word. ‘I’ve had it with your condescending, superior attitude. I’ve put up with a lot – I don’t mean just from you – from all the others involved in this case. How DARE they put me in here with someone half my age, practically out of secondary school. How can you imagine that you know better than I do what’s best for my child?’

Stella took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ she said.

He gripped the arms of the chair. His knuckles turned white.

‘The test takes about an hour and a half. I had planned to use this entire session to complete it. So if you’re not comfort able to do that, well – in that case I suppose we’re finished. Unless there is anything you wanted to ask me?’